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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588462">the one where they're lesbians</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafbaeyette/pseuds/pipsqueakparker'>pipsqueakparker (lafbaeyette)</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, Genderswap, i'm bad at tags and titles, soft lesbians</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 13:23:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,217</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22588462</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/lafbaeyette/pseuds/pipsqueakparker</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re not wearing that.” </p><p>I look up to find Baz standing just a few feet behind me, one sculpted brow raised in appraisal as her stormy grey eyes rove over my body. </p><p>“What’s wrong with this?” I ask, looking down at my outfit. It’s a dress I borrowed from Penny, dark blue and a little loose because Penny’s a bit bigger than me, but I thought it looked nice. It’s not too short, falls just below my knees, and it if I spin my hips the skirt flares out pleasantly. (That’s honestly the main thing I’m looking for in a dress.) (Baz would roll her eyes if I ever admitted that to her.) </p><p>-- </p><p>AKA, </p><p>well...</p><p>The One Where They're Lesbians</p><p>As a gift to Maisy</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>144</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>the one where they're lesbians</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>hello i wrote lesbian snowbaz for ComeAlongMaisy on twit as part of the CO/WS Secret Santa</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <b>SI</b>
</p><p>
  <span>“You’re not wearing that.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look up to find Baz standing just a few feet behind me, one sculpted brow raised in appraisal as her stormy grey eyes rove over my body. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s wrong with this?” I ask, looking down at my outfit. It’s a dress I borrowed from Penny, dark blue and a little loose because Penny’s a bit bigger than me, but I thought it looked nice. It’s not too short, falls just below my knees, and it if I spin my hips the skirt flares out pleasantly. (That’s honestly the main thing I’m looking for in a dress.) (Baz would roll her eyes if I ever admitted that to her.) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We’re going to an engagement party, Snow, not a funeral.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I scoff, crossing my arms and turning around to her. “You’re one to talk. Half your closet is black, innit? And this is navy, it’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>blue</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz rolls her eyes. “That’s an aesthetic choice, and navy is a hideous color.” She steps closer, hands reaching out to take my waist. “Come on, take this monstrosity off.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She starts to bunch the skirt up before pulling the rest of the dress up over my head. I let her, lift my arms as she slips it off, and then return to my previous stance of glaring with my arms folded over my chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t even like dresses, why would you wear this?” Baz pulls an empty hanger from her closet and puts the dress on it nicely, then hangs it on the door before returning to her abundance of clothes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I wanted to look nice,” I shrug. “Didn’t think my usual outfits would be acceptable for some posh Pitch family engagement party.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“First of all,” Baz starts, back to me as she flips through garment after garment. “It’s a </span>
  <em>
    <span>Grimm </span>
  </em>
  <span>family engagement party. Secondly, you’re right. Your usual outfits would not be appropriate, but that’s because you’ve never worn a pair of trousers that weren’t distressed jeans or trackies.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>own </span>
  </em>
  <span>nice trousers. So, the dress...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz turns back around with a pair of dark grey trousers, holding them out to me. “You hate dresses, I’m not making you wear one. Take these.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I look at the grey fabric, I’m almost afraid to actually take it. “Baz, we’re not the same size.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Si, just try the bloody trousers on,” she sighs, and when I hesitate she adds. “I can’t wear them, I do think they’d fit you better.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I take them slowly, holding them up in front of me to assess the waist. I wasn’t lying, Baz and I are not the same size. There’s not that much of a difference, except I’ve actually got more of an arse than she does, and hips, and tits. Basically, I’m round everywhere that Baz isn’t, and it’s not that I’m upset by that or anything. I’m alright with my body, and I know Baz loves it all, but I </span>
  <em>
    <span>do </span>
  </em>
  <span>know that our trousers fit much differently. My trackies hang loose at her waist, while her pyjama bottoms cling to my arse and thighs. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When I do slip the grey trousers on, though, I’m surprised by how easily they slide up my thighs and over my arse. They’re still a bit snug, but they fit, for all intents and purposes. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’d I say?” Baz is grinning as she steps into me again, hands returning to my waist. Her eyes fall down to the trousers and she bites the corner of her lip before looking back up at me. “They’re a much better fit for you.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>I’m no stranger to that dip in her voice as she leans in, and something jolts in my belly when her lips brush over my jaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you were helping me find something to wear?” I whisper, my words sounding far more concerned than I really am. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s not my fault my girlfriend’s so fit and I get distracted easily,” she murmurs, and then her lips are on mine, and her hands slip into the back pockets of my trousers. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Baz</span>
  </em>
  <span>,” I laugh, softly, against her lips, but she’s already pushing me back toward her bed. I drop down when my knees hit the edge, and she falls on top of me, pushing at my shoulders until I’m laying back against her sheets. One of her hands move up into my hair, I just had it cut the other day. I tend to keep the back and sides buzzed, but Baz likes when I keep the top long. She always talks about how much she likes my curls, when she’s feeling particularly soft at least. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She keeps her hair long, too, much longer all around. She lets me braid it sometimes, and I think that’s how I know she really loves me, because she doesn’t let anyone touch her hair. (That’s why it’s so long, nearly down to her waist at this point, because she doesn’t let anyone touch her hair to cut it.) I touch it now, what I can. She’s pulled it back into a bun today, but there are little strands that’ve fallen out around her face, and I brush some behind her ear as she looks down at me, at my lips. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Baz is straddling my hips, leaning over me to press her lips to mine before pulling back again and running her hand from my hair down the side of my face. I lean into it, brush my lips against her palm, press a kiss to the pad of her thumb as she runs it over my mouth. Her hands aren’t soft, they’re calloused and kind of rough, but they run over my skin so gently. Over my chest and down to my stomach, she never did give me a shirt to try on, and I’m starting to think that wasn’t an accident.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>I know it wasn’t when she starts trailing kisses down my neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>BAZ</b>
</p><p>
  <span>Simone Snow is the most beautiful creature in the world and I’m hopelessly in love with her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She’s never really liked going by her full name, </span>
  <em>
    <span>Simone</span>
  </em>
  <span>, so most people call her Si. I’ve always called her ‘Snow’, before we were together. Before we were friends. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Now I just call her ‘love’, ‘dear’, ‘darling’. And ‘Snow’, when she’s being particularly thick or frustrating. Or - </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Beautiful,” I whisper against her skin, following the swell of her breast with my lips. That dress really did nothing for her, it was too big. She wears a lot of oversized shirts, jumpers, and it’s a shame. She’s gorgeous, fit as fuck, honestly. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Baz,” Si sighs, I feel her fingers in my hair, working the hair tie out. Then she’s pulling at my shoulders, pulling me back up until we’re face to face and she presses a gentle kiss to my lips, my nose, and my cheek. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you,” she breathes, and I feel like I could die right here. In this moment. And I’d die happy. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I love you, too.” I kiss her again, then tuck my head under chin. We never really do this, just cuddle and be together. I don’t know why, I know she loves it. I would never admit it out loud, but I kind of do, too. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But I love anything having to do with her. </span>
</p><p> </p>
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